


gospel truth

by forcepair



Series: all was well [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BUT NOT THAT THAT TYPE OF KISS, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I need a life, Kissing with Feelings, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Canon, Rough Kissing, Sloppy Makeouts, Snogging, Teaching, Transfiguration (Harry Potter), a love life that is, all forms of kissing, based on the way she sensually writes kissing, gender neutral reader, okay i'm sorry i'm wasting your time with my pathetic single-blessedness, with passion, years of pent up emotions kissing, you may notice that the author is touched starved and is seriously needing a relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 12:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18778279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcepair/pseuds/forcepair
Summary: Your Patronus may still be the old new, however, that changeseverythingin you because you realize that you haven't moved on from Nymphadora Tonks.





	gospel truth

Much to your embarrassment and dishonor to the teachers in your post before you, your teaching career is in shambles.

Or, it is how you ought to perceive it.

Hasty enthusiastic chattering and harsh-whispered arguing reverberate from inside the Transfiguration classroom as you enter, only to be greeted by an extremely peculiar scene wherein you cannot decipher whether or not to be embarrassed or amused by it.

Though, the coincidental clear daylight sky's aesthetic tells that you can at least afford to be ultimately positive just for this particular schedule, one way or another.

After all, this period was allotted for your teaching evaluation, a new innovation that was introduced after the Second Wizarding War, to keep in tabs if you're competent enough to retain your position as a Hogwarts teacher.

The Headmistress personally observes how well a teacher prompts class discussions and promulgates basic concepts inside the classroom ever since the jinx on the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers have been miraculously lifted following the Tom Riddle's demise, as well as some of the Death Eaters were appointed to of staff.

Then, it somehow has been applied to all the core subjects of the Hogwarts curriculum, beginning with Transfiguration.

Morning sunlight pours in through the high windows, casting shadows on the buttresses on the dome ceiling and softened into a golden hue by the brightly lit candles hung on the two iron chandeliers.

Everything has to and will be perfect after all that's what the Headmistress expects of you, who had been the Transfiguration teacher long before you even step foot in this castle. There is no room for doubt, there shall be only knowledge and confidence in your expertise.

So, leaving you no choice but to remain composed when you walked into your third-year students fawning over a well-groomed tabby cat with spectacle markings on the fur around its eyes, while the majority are trying to persuade them to not touch the cat. You would have appreciated if she shifted back into her human form rather than have to confront this offputting situation, though you hid the dismay with a pensive expression.

 _Probably, this was part of the evaluation_ , you think as you reach the front. You clear your throat loud enough to notify everyone that you have already arrived.

A Slytherin boy cradling the McGonagall looks up to you and smiles. "Oh, Professor! You didn't tell us you have a pet," he exclaims excitedly as he holds her in front of you.

 _Pet?_ You aren't sure if you'll laugh or cry upon hearing that.

Her beady eyes blink at you with unmasked exasperation, silently telling you to exercise authority, _uh now, please_.

You make a dismissive wave with your hand, making his beaming expression fall away as if your gestured have literally wiped it off. "I'm sure that your classmates have been informing you of the first and foremost rule I introduced during your first year."

Looking up at you like a deer seeing an oncoming car's headlights, the students froze with their faces white as paper.

"Ultimately, at any reason, there will be no touching of animals that are within the Transfiguration department's premises _unless_ permitted to do so by the teacher-in-charge," someone near you supplies.

"That is correct, Mr. Tuckett. Now, will you please return to your seats this instance?" you order, calm as ever. "Unless you all fancy to lose a chance in acquiring the House Cup by the end of the year."

No one is reckless enough to defy you, not when you're already passive-aggressively threatening their houses' honors, so everyone shuffles back to their respective places without furthermore looking straight in your eye.

Folding your hands at your back, you give a small smile while you watch McGonagall leap out of the boy's arms and lands gracefully beside you. You raise your chin to project, and in hopes to multiply, the remaining dignity inside of you, "If you have done your advanced readings last night, then you'll already have an idea on what we'll be tackling for today."

There are collective murmurs and gasps from every direction, more prominently with the Hufflepuffs. At least, the majority do their homework despite your heavy demands and high expectations.

"Yes," you affirm with a nod, smiling broader. "As you have read, the highest form of practicing Transfiguration as art requires in-depth skills of patience and excellence."

As if on cue, McGonagall slowly reverts her form back into her human self. The class' utmost shock is a mixture of pale, gaping, and wide-eyed faces as they watch that the cat they were admiring before was their well-respected Headmistress.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Professor Minerva McGonagall, a registered Animagus."

McGonagall looks impeccably regal, but less Gryffindor, in her emerald robes and pointed hat. If she were ever uncomfortable by the show of affection for her earlier as her cat persona, she doesn't show it, though she purses her lips as she settles her piercing gaze to some students sitting at the last row of desks.

"As much as I pride House Hufflepuff in becoming the most skilled duelers, I simply do not tolerate using your knowledge to your advantage in order to further house discrimination," she admonishes icily, making even the most innocent tremble. The five Hufflepuffs sink lower and lower on their seats at every word she utters. "Five points from each of you."

Whatever she had heard before, it must have something to do with the wizarding prejudice against Slytherin that hasn't died even after the war, at least it has been reduced to some extent, yet it's still there, more evident with the younger generation of witches and wizards. And, you certainly don't tolerate such behavior, as someone who had participated in the battle against Voldemort.

"See me for detention after tomorrow's supper." You narrow your eyes at the said Hufflepuffs, who are shifting uncomfortably on their seats upon your cold, hard gaze. "Now, then!" Shifting into a smile, you clapped your hands, bringing everyone's attention back to the lesson from the horror that they were petting Minerva _bloody_ McGonagall. "Who can tell me the difference between an Animagus and a Metamorphagus?"

All so suddenly, the Slytherin boy from earlier faints as if on cue. 

* * *

 

You send a slightly unstable non-corporeal Patronus to inform McGonagall that you'll be seeing her when you finished supper, in the lieu of owling her. Casting spells, in your opinion, are much more convenient than writing messages on parchments as your calloused fingers ached from grading mountains and mountains of essays.

And, something that you don't want to be caught alive admitting, the charm serves as a reminder that you are capable of being happy despite the devastation the war brought not only unto you but also the people around, especially your students.

After the evening's feast, the corridor is deserted when you arrived before the incredibly ugly Stairwell Gargoyle. You swallow the impending embarrassment down where it won't dampen the dignity inside you from saying aloud, "Meow!" Then the gargoyle springs to life and hops aside as the wall behind divide into two, revealing a set of a spiral staircase which leads you higher and higher up the narrow tower before an oak door when you stepped on it.

You pushed the door with a heave and entered without much ado. At your presence, the portraits stir and blink blearily at you, and you are thankful that none of them are in a bad mood. The one portrait behind the ivory desk, with his eyes perpetually twinkling with a yet to be discovered mystery behind his half-moon spectacles, smile at you.

He greets you by your name, making your face light up brighter than the strongest light-creation spell.

"Lovely evening, isn't, Professor Dumbledore?" you say with a slight, yet gracious bow towards his direction.

"Not quite. Unfortunately, I'm missing the taste of lemon sherbet," he sighs, feigning sadness that makes your laugh heartfully.

McGonagall emerges from the loft, looking much more casually comfortable in her evening wear and her braided silver hair, yet her effervescent pensive eyes don't waver as she descends.

"I am quite befuddled about your charm-casting skills." She says your name with a tone you don't recognize, yet you direct a cheerful smile at her.

"Hullo, Minerva." From the way she says your name, you already know she's referring to the Patronus you sent her, though you choose to ignore it.

With a wave of her hand, she non-verbally levitates a silver tea set on the desk and makes the teapot pour warm amber liquid on two cups. The aromatic scent, undoubtedly the tea leaves came from Madam Puddifoot's, wafts through your nose, calming your nerves for a fraction of a moment.

"Tea?" she offers.

You shake your head, apologetic. "I'm afraid I have to have a good night's sleep, at least." With that, the silver tea set is simply returned to its respective shelf.

"A penny for your thoughts?" you ask when she's staring at you like something that needs to be transfigured into a household object.

"You know very well, for sure, that that's supposedly my line." She arches a delicate brow.

You continue to smile, this time, a doleful one. "I apologize for the coherence of my Year Three class earlier. It's not up to par with your expectations."

"Really?" McGonagall says our name again, firmer than before that makes you feel you have been reduced back into being her student. "Please, enlighten me then."

"Everything that has happened in that class, Minerva, is a disaster," you explain, careful to not sound whiny and desperate.

"You weren't the one who ordered the class... To _pet_ me." McGonagall clearly is still thinking about the incident.

You raise a finger. " _That_ could be avoided if I reinstated the class rules much more efficiently."

"Warble's collapse wasn't your fault."

"Which, by the way, is a product of _me_ not being strict enough--" Then, your voice falters. "--Like you were." It's as almost saying aloud ' _I want to be like you_ ' because that's what your sudden shyness is implying.

McGonagall's head leans back slightly as she breathes, slow and sure, and processes your words. The thought that you stepped on an irrevocable confession of your insecurity makes you feel much more inferior than you've never been before.

"If I can't handle a simple fiasco in my class, how am I supposed to live up to the legacy _you_ built years before me?"

You hear your name being called, and you turn and see Professor Dumbledore chiming in. "Not everything has to be perfect. You see, even Minerva and I had committed mistakes when we are young, but it has never stopped us from growing past them."

"Albus is right," McGonagall says. She places a firm grip on your shoulder, yet she squeezes it gently for reassurance and making you look up to her. "Your students admire you very much; they hold high respect for you. I wouldn't just give away my former post to anyone. Your innovations for the curriculum, especially in Human Transfigurations, are proof that you are worthy. Thanks to you, Transfiguration became the most in-demand class than Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I had never reached that point. You are great. You, before me, should know that than anybody else."

Somehow, you manage not to actually cry in front of her, though you feel pride bursting inside your chest. You have heard and experienced a myriad of exaltations from her even during your Hogwarts years, but those words are paramount to everything combined. "Thank you, Minerva," you whisper.

"Learn to embrace yourself." Finally, McGonagall turns away from you, giving you a second for a breather. She rounds her desk, stands straighter, and clasps her hands behind her back. "You can start with your Patronus." Her tone implies that it wasn't a suggestion.

You blink, once, then twice. "My Patronus?" you squeak nervously. At this rate, you are not sure if it's a question or you simply repeated her words to have a hold of reality. Not to mention that it was an odd transition from the topic of your self-doubt to your Patronus.

When she nods curtly, panic rises inside you. It's been years since you cast a corporeal Patronus, and you certainly don't want to divulge the reasons _why_. Not when you already have confessed a little, too much. Nevertheless, you have no choice but to do so, knowing her who loathed cowardice with every fiber of her being.

"Yes," she says as if stating the obvious, which is true in all sense. "The corporeal form of the Patronus charm is a reflection of you. I know that you know that it's about time you have to cease prancing away from the _truth_."

How on earth she does know why?

Behind McGonagall, Dumbledore's portrait whimsically sings the lyrics to _You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me_ under his breath, winking when you notice and your cheeks immediately feel fire hot.

Were they talking about your pathetic love life behind your back?

"What truth?" you ask, feeling stupid.

"Maybe your Patronus would answer your question for you," she replies enigmatically.

"I don't see that it's necessary for me to--"

McGonagall gives you a withering look as Snape's portrait, hanging somewhere in the room (You aren't sure because you don't care to look), harrumphs. Dumbledore's portrait simply gives you an encouraging smile.

"Just cast it and be done with it! Your very existence is still a bloody inconvenience even in my demise." Snape spats your surname. "Or are you absolutely incompetent that you let your tragic romance consume you?"

Turning to find his portrait, which is hung above the mantel, you argue acidly, "Well, spoken by a true expert!"

You are expecting a clever retort, but Snape doesn't even glare at you at all and turns silent. Now, everything clicks in place. Snape's feigning irritability to cover his something unsavory.

They were definitely conspiring behind your back.

With a sigh of defeat, you muster the most recent and happiest memory you can think of: McGonagall telling you that you're greater than you seem to be. Focusing on that very feeling, you cast, " _Expecto Patronum_!"

As expected, a wispy silver light sprout out from the tip of your wand into a ball of light materializes into a small animal which hops around you in a fast circle. Its long ears are enough to give you a hint of what it is, and the fact it remains to be your Patronus and hasn't reverted back to your original one. This one is brighter and clearer than the corporeal ones you summoned years before, and what more if it was in memory associated with  _her._

_Tonks._

There's a flash of bubblegum pink in your mind, the wicked glint in her dark eyes, and ungodly clumsiness in a wrong time--all which are flashing through your memories so rapidly your chest constricts until something dawns upon you.

You haven't moved on from Nymphadora Tonks.

The realization sits heavy on your heart, somehow heavier in your eyes.

After all this time?

From the corner of your eye, McGonagall hums appreciatively when your Patronus does that wink, all too familiar and specifically at you, and you fail to admit that it reminds you of missing her for months.

"A jackrabbit! How curious," Dumbledore's portrait says.

Your Patronus dissipates in thin air when it crashes to a shelf, leaving you in utter shock that it also trips just like Tonks. Can Patronuses even mimic mannerisms? Without hesitating to test out the theory, you raise your wand and cast the Patronus charm once again, this time with the memory of your first Christmas post-war at the Burrow many months ago.

Your theory is confirmed when the jackrabbit winks at you the same way Tonks does so.

"I believe you invited _her_ for a talk," says McGonagall, "Tomorrow in one of your classes. Also, we'll talk about rescheduling your observation in another time."

"And, I believe my Patronus doesn't mean anything," you protest desperately.

"You see, Patronuses don't lie, you absolute stubborn rubbish," says Snape, his portrait sneers at you. 

Remembering how to breathe properly, you blush furiously, still holding your wand so limply that it might escape your grasp. "Still, it doesn't change anything. She loves Remus." With a muttered farewell, you turn to leave.

You hear Snape scoff just before as you close the heavy oak door behind you. "I can't believe you involved me in such travesty, Dumbledore. How original." 


End file.
